Imperfect Visions
by Sheason
Summary: Sometimes, you can see the same event different ways. In New Vegas, everyone's vision is a bit imperfect...
1. Introduction

_Forgive me a moment, whilst I state the obvious._

 _Sheason Fisher isn't the only Courier I've ever played in Fallout: New Vegas. Just take a look at my Steam profile: as of writing this, I have 726 hours of playtime logged into the game, and every single achievement done. So, clearly I've played it through from start to finish at least 4 times. Probably more. I honestly haven't kept track of all my save files. The fact that I've played this damn game so much and devoted so much time to writing Sheason's Story has given me an idea for a bit of a side project._

 _This story will be called "Imperfect Visions."_

 _This is not going to be like Sheason's Story. It will not be a single, continuous narrative. Instead, it's going to be a series of short vignettes. Each chapter would focus on a different character, roughly based on my many, many (many) playthroughs of Fallout: New Vegas. Each of the different characters would be that specific Courier for their own specific universe. It would give me a chance to showcase some of the various and wildly different "what if" perspectives that I wouldn't normally get a chance to write about when I'm focusing entirely on Sheason._

 _One might be inclined to call them 'imperfect visions' of all these myriad alternate realities. But that would just be silly._

 _Currently, I have plans for this story to focus on 4 different Couriers (at the very least):_

 _- **Mari Natsuki** : The Courier who supports the NCR._

 _- **Elliot Hughes** : The Courier who 'supports' House's continued rule of Vegas._

 _- **Grant Hunter** : The Courier who honestly couldn't care less about the various factions and their politics - he's come to the Mojave to hunt Legendary Monsters and the Most Dangerous Game._

 _- **Jack** : Legion._

 _More Couriers may crop up as the story goes on. There is certainly no shortage of characters living within my brain, and each of them wants some time in the spotlight._

 _With that taken care of, I present to you some Imperfect Visions_


	2. Jack I

**Jack I**

* * *

"Remember, you ever get hurt out there, you come right back and I'll fix you up. Just... try not to get yourself killed anymore, alright?" Doc Mitchell smirked as he led his patient to the door. The thin man smiled, tapping a few of his fingers against the casing of the Pip Boy on his arm... but didn't say anything right away.

The man - who called himself Jack - had struck the doctor as slightly odd, even before waking up. There aren't many people who have skin _that_ pale in the desert. Fewer still who think a green mohawk is normal. And then, the doctor sat Jack down and went through the psych evaluation. With those tests, sometimes people get a bit more than they bargained for, and... well...

Mitchell silently wondered after finishing if he'd made a terrible mistake by saving this man.

"Thank you..." Jack eventually said very softly, looking up from his wrist computer. He smiled again, looking at Mitchell through the green hair hanging loosely over one side of his face. Jack reached up to brush the hair away, pausing momentarily to caress the scar on his temple. "Really, thank you. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be alive right now."

"Don't mention it," Mitchell shrugged. "Just doin' my job."

Jack nodded, and without another word, walked straight for the door. The door clicked open, spilling the morning light into the main hallway of the doctor's house, and then slid shut with another click. Mitchell let out a heavy sigh of relief. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe his apprehension was completely unfounded...

The door clicked open again.

"Oh, there is _one_ thing I forgot..." Jack held up a finger, waltzing back into the doctor's house. Jack was still smiling, but it was a vastly different smile than before. His eyes were wide, and the pupils were practically pinpricks. His lips weren't closed anymore, and showed off a mouth full of slightly crooked, yellow teeth. When he smiled, it was like his skin was being pulled back from the ears. Mitchell was so momentarily confused and taken aback that he didn't see Jack reaching for the 10mm pistol on his hip.

A single gunshot echoed throughout the house, followed swiftly by the sound of Doc Mitchell crashing lifelessly to the floor. Jack stood over the prone form, still smiling just a bit too broadly. The doctor's dead eyes stared at the ceiling; blood began to pour from the back of his skull and pool onto the wooden floorboards.

"Don't go through my things," Jack said aloud. "It's... not nice."

Jack started cackling insanely, and didn't stop for several minutes.

* * *

"It's been a helluva day!" Jack said as he sat on the roof of the Prospector Saloon. He took a long look at the town of Goodsprings below him, and laughed raucously, only ending it to take a swig from the whisky bottle in his hand.

The sun was nearing the horizon, and certainly one possibility was that _it_ was casting the reddish-orange glow on the town. Another distinct, and much more likely, possibility was that the reddish-orange glow was instead coming from the _other_ fires all around town. Nearly every building had been set ablaze. Dead bighorners were scattered all over between the burning buildings. The ground was stained in various places with drying blood. Dead bodies - along with dismembered body _parts_ \- also littered the ground.

"Yep," Jack surveyed the carnage with a smile, replaying several of the murders in his mind. "It certainly has been a **hell**. Of. A. Day..." He giggled throatily to himself for several seconds. "What do you think, Sunny?"

To Jack's immediate right were a collection of several severed heads. Doc Mitchell, Sunny Smiles, Chet, Trudy, Easy Pete... even Joe Cobb and Ringo. He'd killed everyone - even the Powder Ganger's who'd rolled into town, wondering what had happened to their ringleader. There weren't any heads to Jack's _left_ , however, because that's where he was keeping the cut-up and mutilated pieces of Sunny's dog. He wasn't hungry at the moment, so Jack instead reached over and plucked the lifeless head of the red-headed teenager out of the grim pile.

"Yes?" Jack grasped her firmly by the hair, and held her slack-jawed open mouth next to his ear. For several minutes, the only sound in Goodsprings was the creaking embers of the burning buildings, and the soft sounds squeaking out of the radio he'd stolen. Jack shook his head and sighed at a response that only he could hear.

"Well, that's no good!" Jack pulled the head away from his ear. "Where on earth am I going to find a sack of avocados, a paintball gun, and a tutu at this hour anyway? You're just not _thinking_!" Jack let out a disgusted sigh, and tossed the head off the roof. "Ah, fuck it. Let's see what's on the radio..."

Jack leaned back, and turned up the volume knob on the radio next to the pile of heads. Some twangy, old-world country song was playing, but he didn't know the name, so he focused on something else. He held up the whisky bottle to his eye - it was about half-way full. So he hummed along to the song on the radio as he pulled out a cloth, wedged it into the top of the bottle, and upended it several times to get the rag to soak up the booze.

 _"And we're back,"_ The voice on the radio said as the song faded out. _"This is Mr. New Vegas. I feel something magic in the air tonight, and I'm not just talking about the gamma radiation. Here are our top stories. Patrons of the Ultra-Luxe are questioning whether its pricey restaurant, the Gourmand, is overstating the fullness of its wait list. Those who claim to have dined at the restaurant find the food appealing, but say many tables remain empty. Also in the headlines, merchants are saying that there's been little contact between traders from Nipton in recent days, causing concerns that the isolated town may be in trouble. That's all I have for you. This is Mr. New Vegas, wishing you ladylike luck tonight."_

As soon as Mr. New Vegas finished speaking, Jack lit the alcohol-soaked rag. He stood up, held the Molotov cocktail in his hand, and aimed for one of the few buildings in town that _hadn't_ been set on fire.

"This is it, ladies and gentlemen!" He said aloud. "It's the bottom of the ninth, the bases are loaded with two outs! This next pitch will determine the outcome of the NEXT! WORLD! SERIES!" He leaned back almost comically, balancing on one foot with the burning liquor bottle in hand. "He winds up for the pitch..." There was a whirlwind of limbs, and he sent it sailing through the air. The bottle burst against the wall in a shower of glass and flame.

"YES!" Jack yelled, punching the sky with both fists. "And he's OUTTA THERE! Ha-haa!" He swung his arm in circles several times, ending it by pointing off somewhere in the distance, and flopped back down onto his ass, cracking open another bottle of liquor. But right before he brought it to his lips to drink, he paused.

It was like two large pieces of farmyard machinery had just connected in his mind.

"Hmm... Nipton, huh?" He rubbed his sharp chin, as if deep in thought. But he definitely _wasn't_ deep in thought; he'd already made up his mind. "I wonder what kind of trouble that town has found itself in. I should probably go and check..."

* * *

It was close to noon several days later that Jack found himself walking along the Nipton highway. He was headed east, away from the Mojave Outpost, humming sporadically to himself and bobbing his head to a tune only he could hear. In his hand was an aluminum baseball bat, which he tossed in the air every once in a while like it was a baton, and he was the conductor of a marching band.

His clothes were still slightly torn and flecked with blood from all his exploits since waking up in Goodsprings. The newest of the various blood stains had been acquired very recently: a gang of Vipers who had camped along the side of the highway thought it would be a good idea to try and attack him. Jack was still a bit wound up from their failed ambush; it had been an _okay_ workout, but they hadn't put up as good of a fight as he had wanted. On the plus side, he managed to get a few half-decent weapons out of the deal, so it hadn't been a _total_ loss...

Jack threw the baseball bat into the air again, but missed it on the way down. It clattered against the cracked and broken pavement with a reverberating clang.

"Ah, damnit..." he muttered, brushing his green mohawk out of his face as he stooped to pick it up. It wasn't until he was on his way up that he noticed: he was just outside the town of Nipton. Right in front of him was the town sign, in fact. He had completely forgotten why he'd been heading this way, and hadn't really been paying attention while walking down the road. But now that he was presented with this small town, belching black smoke clouds in the air very similar to Goodsprings, he couldn't help but nod approvingly.

"YEAH-HAH-AHH!" A cry rang out from somewhere in the town. Jack furrowed his brow and leaned around the sign just in time to see a filthy Powder Ganger in glasses hopping and shouting and pumping his fists in the air. "Who has two thumbs and just won the fuckin' lottery? This fuckin' guy! OH YEAH!"

"What?" Jack asked aloud. The Powder Ganger didn't seem to notice. He just kept waving his arms, dancing around in little circles on his way past Jack and out of town.

"Mmm, smell that fuckin' air!" He breathed deep through his nostrils, and grabbed Jack by the shoulders; he was far too confused to resist, and ended up being shaken like a rag doll. "Isn't that air just fan-fuckin'-fastic? You could just drink it like BOOZE! HA-HAAA!" He let go of Jack and started running off down the road.

"Huh?" Jack said aloud, eyebrows raised and confusion on his face. For a moment, he didn't do anything. But then he shook his head, looked at the Powder Ganger who was running away from the burning town down the road... and shot him in the back with his 10mm. Three bullets later the Powder Ganger collapsed, and Jack turned back to the town.

"Hmph. What was that crazy guy talking about? This place doesn't smell like _booze._ Smells like..." His nostrils flared, and he sucked in audibly. "Ooh, yeah. That's definitely the heady aroma of burning tires. Sulfur dioxide and the sweet smell of styrene! That'll keep going for days! I say, old boy! Let us be about the business of investigating then, shall we?" He bowed, gesturing to no one. He gave a flourish with his hands, stepped to the side, and nodded back at the place where he'd just been standing. "Certainly, sirrah! ONWARD!"

He holstered his pistol and strode confidently into the burning town, humming to himself. Sure enough, he found a massive pile of burning tires in the middle of the road, blocking his path. He breathed in deep from the toxic fumes as he circled around the burning pile, and laughed when he noticed the corpse tied to a post in the center.

"Crispy!" He said with another guttural laugh. He turned around, and was greeted with a street lined with bodies nailed to telephone poles turned into crosses. He narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the corpses; this seemed _familiar_ somehow, but he couldn't place it...

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Jack heard another voice from the end of the road that snapped him to attention. A man dressed in red sports equipment and wearing a dead fox on his head descended down the steps of the charred town hall, flanked by several more soldiers wearing red sports equipment, carrying rifles and machetes. The building was mostly intact, draped with half a dozen red flags, emblazoned with the image of a golden bull.

"It certainly is!" Jack said, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "Tell me – are you the one responsible for all this?" The man wearing the dead fox folded his arms across his chest and nodded.

"Indeed I am. My name is Vulpes Inculta, commander of the mighty Cæsar's Frumentarii, and before you lies the lesson of all who would dare to oppose the might of Cæsar's Legion." While Vulpes spoke, Jack moved to one of the crosses, to inspect one of the bodies.

"I gotta say... I love your work!" Jack prodded the foot of one of the victims tied to a cross with the end of his baseball bat, and then turned around to gesture at the rest of the burning town. "This has to be the most avant-garde art installation I've ever witnessed!" This time, it was Vulpes turn to look surprised.

"I... wh- art?" He asked aloud, stumbling over his words. Jack nodded frantically, causing his green mohawk to flap over and over, all the while waggling his eyebrows.

"Most certainly!" Jack yelled enthusiastically. "I mean, with regard to the issue of content, the metaphorical resonance of the post-modern Bauhaus aesthetic verges on codifying the inherent and devious simplicity of the larger carcass, creating an underpinning of neo-dada accessibility in the work! It's extraordinarily profound!"

For a solid minute, the only sound was the crackling of the burning tires at the other end of the road. Vulpes gazed at Jack curiously before looking over to one of his soldiers questioningly; the frumentari shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, just as confused as Vulpes. Jack giggled softly to himself.

"But, if I may... from one professional to another?" Jack tossed his baseball bat over his shoulder, which clattered behind him on the pavement with a metallic echo. "Nailing them to these telephone poles is fantastic – and the guy burning on the tire pile is truly inspired! But if you _really_ want to send a message, you can do _so much_ _ **more**_!" Jack spread his arms wide as he looked at Vulpes with a toothy grin, his eyes reduced to pinpricks.

"More?" Vulpes asked, intrigued at the suggestion. "Tell me, then... what would you have done to this town of degenerates, profligate?" Jack shook his head and laughed, grabbing a nearby crate and setting at the base of one of the crosses.

"Oh, we don't have time for me to list _everything_ I could've done – there's only so many hours of daylight left!" Jack giggled again, stepped on the crate, and grabbed the victim nailed to the cross by the head. Amazingly, the man was still alive, and jerked at the motion, coughing raspily.

"P-please... k...kill... m-me..." He stared at Jack with pleading eyes; Jack touched his forehead to the victim, shushing him rapidly.

"Shh-sh-sh-sh-sh-shhhh... No, there's no need for that just yet..." Jack cradled the man's face with one hand, and reached behind his back with the other, pulling out a switchblade that he opened with a click. Jack caressed the man's cheek with the side of the blade, moving the steel against flesh without breaking the skin. "There's just so much we can **do** before the end... so many emotions we can **both** savor..."

"My lord, Vulpes," one of the Legion soldiers whispered. "We must not linger. We have tarried here for far too long." Vulpes raised a hand, and the Legionnaire instantly fell silent.

The Legion Fox was intrigued by this strange, green haired sadist. Logic told him that he was no better than the other human filth that he and his men had slaughtered in this town without a second thought. But there was... _something_... A gut feeling, perhaps, taking hold within Vulpes that he could not fully explain.

"News of Nipton's fate must be spread far and wide," Vulpes spoke up as he stared at Jack. Jack dropped what he was doing and hopped off the crate, forgetting entirely about the man on the cross. "The NCR must be told, foremost. The Bear must be told, so that they may understand the futility of opposing the Legion. Would you be willing to aid us in this undertaking?"

"Ooh, you guys don't like NCR either, huh?" Jack asked, shoving his thumbs into his pants belt loops. "I **knew** I liked you boys." Vulpes smiled, nodding at Jack.

"I knew you were not like the others..." Vulpes said, lying through his teeth. "There is small outpost of The Bear, ten miles west. That might be a good place to... spread the word." It was Vulpes turn to grin toothily, showing of a pair of far-too-sharp canines. Jack's expression fell, and he grimaced, scratching at the back of his scalp nervously.

"Oooh..." There was a sharp intake of air through Jack's gritted teeth, and he couldn't help but look guilty.

"Problem?" Vulpes asked.

"Possibly?" Jack shrugged. "I'm pretty sure trying to tell someone at the Mojave Outpost isn't gonna work, since... well... there's nobody left."

"Nobody... what?" Vulpes asked, blinking in confusion.

"Nobody left!" Jack said happily, thinking back. "Place is burnt to the ground. To be honest, I didn't really mean for it to go as far as it did so quickly, but... well, there was this sniper, you know? And she was just..." Jack screwed up his face, gesturing indistinctly with waving hands. "She was _eyeballin'_ me, you know? And, well, you know how these things go. One thing led to another and before I knew it, I'd set fire to the place, and killed everyone! Blood everywhere! I didn't **want** to, but..." Jack paused, giving another shrug. "Sometimes you just have to dive in with both hands!"

"... What is your name?" Vulpes asked, refraining from calling the green-haired lunatic profligate again. Jack grinned, holding back a giggle, and grabbed Vulpes by the hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

"The name's Jack! Pleased ta meetcha!"

* * *

 _Meanwhile, at the Mojave Outpost..._

The last of the creaking embers fell to the ground. Most of the buildings had been burnt to their frames, but a few ashen fires were still smoldering. Bodies and body parts littered the cracked pavement, and every surface was either blackened from fire, covered in dark, drying blood, or both.

A pair of green tinted lenses surveyed the carnage. Dusty boot soles carefully strode through the wreckage. A gust of wind swirled through the outpost, catching the trenchcoat of the man who had just arrived at the now destroyed outpost.

To him, the most noticeable desecration to the site was not the burnt buildings or mutilated bodies. It was the ranger statue. Constructed in 2272 to symbolize the union of the two Ranger groups in the region, it was supposed to look like a Nevada Ranger and NCR Ranger shaking hands... but now, it looked like what it was: a twisted and ruined pile of scrap metal.

He knelt down at the base of the wreck, and picked up a small handful of blackened soil with gloved hands. He inspected it as it slipped through his fingers: the soil had the telltale burns caused by an improvised explosive. Probably an oil drum filled with biodiesel and ammonium nitrate. Crude... but effective.

The man in the trenchcoat snorted from behind his mask, and he gripped his rifle tight. He had seen this kind of brutality before... this kind of senseless murder. And he had _definitely_ seen that kind of explosive damage before.

"I've found you..." the man growled behind his gas mask. "You're not going to slip away **this** time."


End file.
